Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.

The Silent Folk

OH, praise me not the silent folk;

To me they only seem

Like leafless, bird-abandoned oak

And muffled, frozen stream.

I want the leaves to talk and tell

The joy that’s in the tree,

And water-nymphs to weave a spell

Of pixie melody.

Your silent folk may be sincere,

But still, when all is said,

We have to grant they’re rather drear,—

And maybe, too, they’re dead.